Flostak – Upper Hive
Sira had taken a suite-sized apartment in the Industrial Sector. The structure itself belonged to an entrepreneurial minor noble who had not once even seen the building. Having leased the entire fourth floor, Sira had prepared for the arrival of upwards of twenty men under Lord Verne's command. The extra preparations resulted in plenty of space for each member. Selene took to the living room, which had already been stocked and turned into a full-on infirmary. A pre-installed little shrine to the God-Emperor had been expanded with Sira's personal icons and several prayer books. Most every room had mattresses wall-to-wall and the kitchen was well stocked for a month-long siege. Three different weapon lockers had been spread evenly through the rooms. Leon allowed himself to be impressed. She could have supplied a whole company of Guardsmen out of this suite.
In stocking the suite she had not skimped on the luxuries either though. Leon had assumed she had taken some kind of Assassin's vow of abstinence from the good life. Bread and water, hard beds, that kind of thing. Instead the suite had a small pool, high quality sofas, and some of the most decadent showers he had ever seen. The place reeked of opulence. How did she have the money to acquire all of this? Must have been that hidden wealth that Lord Verne never spoke about.
Leon stood on the balcony and looked out at the hive. To the north rose the colossal Governor's palace, a monstrosity of neo-classical architecture that clashed against the more ancient structures of the cathedrals and Departmento Administratum. Whitewashed walls reflected burning sun to blind those looking up from above. The intent was clear, to inspire fear and awe in those of the Lower Hive. Instead of peaks and arches the palace consisted of overlapping domed structures. Three layers of protective walls guarded the approaches, manned by armored cars and heavy weapons that had lain dormant since their productions hundreds of years ago. From his vantage point he studied the building and realized that it had a long front, lined by towering colored-glass windows, and two equal branching wings that ended in cylindrical towers. More lay beyond; the palace extended to the river Farei that barely brushed against Flostak City. A whole fleet of gunboats guarded the banks and the governor's private airfield. He estimated a standing guard of four thousand men were housed on the palace grounds. For a world that had not seen invasion or attack in thousands of years the governors sure seemed to be afraid of something.
With possible reason, he rationalized. The current regime was only recently installed. Eighteen years ago the current ruling family, Clan Morea, had usurped the governorship and wiped out Clan Loredan. The official reports, Leon had skimmed them, spoke of the usual sectarian feuding for control. Everything had been done in a mind-bogglingly brutal but efficient manner. Simultaneous raids against over one hundred locations by Clan militia and mercenaries annihilated every member of Clan Loredan within the blood-quota. Officials that had prepared for years to replace the slain Clan Loredan positions filled the gaps so quickly that the planet barely noticed the change. Apart from those caught up in the violence of the coup, life went on as normal. Clan banners changed, new names were spoken, and life continued.
The scale of the coup had caught Leon's attention. Clan Morea had fielded a division's worth of soldiers. No Clan had more than a tenth of those numbers in household guards. Strict limits kept the militia's down to avoid regular conflict. That Clan Morea had used mercenaries was obvious. Who those mercenaries were though, Leon had a hunch the Junta Cartel had been involved. With the rise of Clan Morea came a large influx of governmental contracts to the Junta Cartel and its subsidiaries. Lord Verne must have noticed that too, which explained his reluctance to announce his presence to the Imperial authorities. The Junta were allies of Clan Morea, Leon was sure of that.
His attention drifted further on to his left. Somewhere out there, in the vast expanse of super-tower clusters that lined the western half of Upper Hive, Junta Cartel businessmen were going about their days. He spent a long moment wondering how many of them would be dead before this investigation ended. Preferably, all those guilty. He stretched out his fingers. There would be a lot of killing to do.
"Monsieur Kane."
He turned his head. Lord Verne stood in the doorway, one hand on his hip in a rather impatient manner. Prying eyes could see them, so they were in their disguise-mode. Offering a stiff and formal bow, he gestured for Lord Verne to come up beside him. The Inquisitor did not.
"Monsieur Kane, I am ready to be going now. Madam Recalior has informed me of a very nice little glass shop nearby and I would hate to pass up the opportunity to see it."
"At your service." Leon bowed again and turned his back on the cityscape. Sira and Selene stood waiting by the door. Rex and Lex had disappeared, but Sira assured him she knew what they were up to. Two giant mutt-humans couldn't hide very easily. While the others had settled in and examined the suite for themselves, Leon had merely dumped his pack and drawn both the bullpup and the saber. Neither Lord Verne nor Sira commented on the elegant blade tapping against his thigh, but Selene smiled at the sight. He casually slung his bullpup over the shoulder and stood beside her.
"Something on your mind, Doc?"
"The sword completes your look. No one will be able to mistake you for a soldier now."
"It's grand, isn't it?" He made a show of whipping the blade out for her to inspect. "Though I doubt I will actually use it. Swords are too bloody inefficient."
Sira snorted in amusement and plucked the blade from his hand as if he had given it to her. One hand pressed delicately on the base of the blade and she brushed her thumb longingly over the power switch. "This is an exquisite blade, Monsieur Kane. How did you come by it?"
"I shot the owner in the head" he snapped, taking it back and sheathing the weapon before her wandering fingers set off the power field. "Or something like that. It's hard to keep track of them all."
"You clearly didn't best the owner in close combat" she said. "Only a professional would wield a blade of this caliber."
"And just what are you insinuating?"
She gave him a frosty look. "Exactly what it sounded like."
Leon growled in his throat. The Assassin's eyes twinkled and she patted him on the cheek.
"Now, now, don't be so sour. I won't tell the others that you fight like a mind-neutered grox."
He huffed and faced Lord Verne. "Ready to be off?"
"If you children have finished bickering." He swept grandly with his hand and they exited the suite. "Monsieur Kane, if you would drive us. I would speak with Madam Recalior in private."
They reached the underground garage and Sira pointed out the sleek hovercar under her name. Once again, the flashy display of wealth made Leon wondered how they could afford it. Either she had killed off a merchant and taken his place or Lord Verne truly had a hoard tucked away somewhere. It was a six-seater speeder with tinted windows and an overcharged engine for rapid getaways in case of trouble. Leon ran one hand along the cab as he went to open the door for his Inquisitor. The shell must have been armored underneath the simple hood.
Sira gave him simple directions before she disappeared into the cab with Lord Verne. Selene joined him in driver compartment, settling in with grace to the hard leather seat. Leon drove them out of the parking lot and onto the near-empty streets. He noted instantly that there were few cars about at all. He expected a city like this to be thriving with traffic. When he commented on the peculiar lack of transport to Selene she shrugged and ventured to guess that only the ultra-wealthy could afford vehicles. Environmental laws placed severe taxes on personal vehicles. Plenty of people owned cars, but to actually drive them tended to be financially inefficient.
With the lack of traffic Leon found their destination and pulled into an open and pict-secured lot. Neither Lord Verne nor Sira appeared interested on filling them in when they got out and started walking. Sira did have the courtesy to inform Leon that vehicle theft had an extremely low occurrence rate. It made him feel slightly safer about leaving such a vehicle without a guard. Not being used to civilian life, he didn't understand the logic in leaving a valuable piece of equipment without security.
The merchant district Sira had chosen consisted more of entrepreneurial businesses than street vendors and one-story shops. This was where a man went to negotiate cargo trading, system credentials, and bulk shipping. Here and there a particularly brave vendor tried to hawk wares to the passers-by, but their nervousness revealed that they were not legal here, nor were what they sold. Leon knew that at the first hint of Justicars they would flip shut their drawers and hightail it out of sight.
"I am beginning to sense a pattern here" Leon muttered. Lord Verne half-turned to listen. They strode side by side, with Leon maintaining a proper guise of servile obedience.
"Are you?"
"Corruption everywhere." Leon scowled at a vendor who tried to catch their eye. The man had greasy dark hair, rotten teeth, and an eye patch that barely hid the horrible scars. A miserable beggar at best. Probably carried some kind of pox too. "Corruption and rot."
"It's not so bad," he said in a voice that clearly meant he did think it was so bad. "I don't pay you for your thinking, Monsieur Kane. I paid for your skill with your rifle, not your mind."
Leon took the admonishment quietly. Letting his hand run along the butt of his compact, he merely nodded and shut his mouth. He only spoke once more before reaching the Junta Cartel office. A street urchin with hair a dusty coal black color was cutting a very determined path that would have taken her just past them. Leon unslung his compact and spat a vicious warning to clear the way, which the beggar did. Picking pockets was much harder when the prey were aware.
The entrance to Junta Office 5a8 consisted of an indented set of double doors and a hideaway security device in the corner. The doors opened automatically at their approach, offering only a slight buzz to warn the attendant servitors of visitors. Within moments of setting foot inside they found themselves beset at all sides by polite offers for refreshment and to take their coats. Leon glared after them, a growl rising in his throat, but Lord Verne motioned for him the stand down. Declining the offers, the Inquisitor guided them through the crowd and to the front desk.
A slim and weasel-faced secretary set aside her dataslate and looked up at them with the patient expression of someone looking for a break from the boredom of sitting all day at a desk. Her eyes swept over them and back to her dataslate, cross-referencing their faces for appointments. When she had confirmed she rose and greeted them.
"Mistress Recalior, I must apologize that Tradesman Wetten is still in his meeting. Your appointment will have to be delayed."
Sira did not reply, but turned to Lord Verne and frowned. Her voice was harsh and imperious when she spoke again. "It is not my meeting, peasant. Did I not say who I worked for when I made this appointment? This is Junior Tradesman Vernon Partridge! He is not the kind of man to be delayed, mind you. Travelled all the way from Gudrun to meet with Tradesman Wetten."
The secretary paled at her commanding tone. She stammered over her words and looked back at her dataslate. Sira advanced on her with practiced ease, drawing a dramatic breath for what was sure to be a spectacular ear-scalding. The Gudrunite Junior Tradesman clicked his tongue and she held her silence, jolting back as if on a leash. That simple motion terrified the secretary even further, to see such an angry woman brought to heel so easily. Perhaps it was the way Sira continued to glare at her, like a hound at the end of its leash. Or maybe it was the fact that she just noticed that Leon had a rifle slung over his shoulder. She went for the panic button.
Thankfully, the door opened just about that same time and a gaggle of well-dressed merchants strode into the lobby. Their appearance caused the secretary to hesitate. Before the poor girl could make a decision Sira pushed past her and thrust straight into the crowd. Honing in on a large and balding man in a pin-striped suit, she drew herself to full height and addressed him. The fact that she was interrupting a conversation did not slow her or bother her in the slightest.
"Tradesman Wetten?"
"…yes?" His piggy eyes widened as he looked her up and down. The fur-lined half-jacket she wore did little to hide the body-hugging summer gown she wore underneath at that range. After a despicably long leer, complete with nervous licking of his upper lip, the man returned his attention to her face and asked her name.
"Recalior" she told him, stiff with poised anger. "Your peasant of a secretary just informed me that my master's meeting with you is to be delayed. I gathered the impression that she is a dull and witless creature, and that there will be, in fact, no delay?"
"No, no, of course not." The man hardly paid attention to her words. He dismissed his companions with a vacant wave and apologized for the interruption. The other merchants grumbled and muttered, and they stormed out with dark glares at Lord Verne and his accomplices. Leon gave one a snarky glare that made the man rethink a curse half-formed.
"I am so sorry for the mistake" Tradesman Wetten told Sira, who shifted her weight back in a way that drew eyes down to her toned hips. Holy Throne she had picked an eye-catching dress and knew how to work it. Leon looked away and studied the surrounding servitors. They were mostly human to appearance, with nominal cosmetic implants focused around the eyes and voice boxes. Odds were most of them had some kind of hidden weapon contained under their flowing robes. If that poor, trembling secretary had actually pushed the panic button they would have been in for a fight. The woman flinched as her master directed a few dismissive threats of later admonishment her way. She was young, perhaps only a few months into her job here to be hustled so easily. Sira had been effectively harsh, but the woman had broken like a glass jar in a grenade blast.
At the merchant's urging they followed him through the doors and into a second lobby furnished with chairs, tables, and even a small bar. A distinctly mechanical servitor stood behind the bar, waiting to take orders as necessary. The walls were painted a pale and pleasant shade of ochre and had numerous awards and prizes hung at regular intervals. Leon spotted several rather proud accomplishments marked on the wall behind the bar. Merchant snobbery, he thought with a suppressed snort.
The lobby held two occupants already when they entered. On the far side, sitting with an expressionless mask of patience, was a man in the later stages of life in a very formal and business-like suit. Bony fingers clutched a magnificent walking cane that reflected the overhead lights like black glass. The silvered knob bore the likeness of a three-headed Kai-hawk, the Junta Cartel symbol. He wore nothing out of the ordinary for a businessman. In fact, he appeared very plain and unadorned for a man that walked in these circles. Tradesman Wetten had two rings on each finger and enough bracelets and necklaces to feed a Guard Regiment for a year. This ancient old man wore no finery. His only mark of importance was the cane. Leon did not let that fool him. The man's eyes were sharp as the Kai-hawk that his Cartel venerated, drinking in the sight of their party in a bare glance. The slightest twitch of his eye was the only sign of interest before he resumed staring at the wall.
Interesting as the old man was, Leon's attention landed solidly on the second man. Standing beside his companion rather than taking one of the many seats available, his faux-relaxed posture and confident smirk warned Leon that the man was dangerous. There was a subtle bulge under his left shoulder: a weapon holster. A slim bit of stiffness in the fabric along his right pant leg told Leon he had a blade sheathed there as well. His unusually tall stature allowed him to tower over his sitting master and take in the crew with little trouble. Glassy-white eyes passed over them all with curiosity. His smirk broadened. And then his gaze met Leon's and stayed there. They stared at each other for a long minute before the old man whispered something and the tall guardian broke eye contact. Leon watched him stoop slightly to hear his master, and after a simple nod, straightened and looked at the wall.
"We can meet in here" Tradesman Wetten urged. Lord Verne told Leon and Selene to remain in the lobby while he and the Assassin strode on in. The doors closed with a firm thud and they stood by, waiting for several seconds to ensure that nothing erupted once they were cut off. Eventually Leon grew satisfied and stalked over to the seat closest to opposite the door. Plopping down with little decorum, he let out a long breath and motioned for Selene to join. The medicae shook her head and went to sit at the bar. The machine freak bartender slid over to her in a well-disguised grinding of gears on a track. Disgusted by the servitor, Leon looked away.
No sound came out of the room. He assumed that everything was soundproofed. About fifteen minutes after they entered the secretary came scurrying in and through, balancing a precarious pile of old leaf-page documents in her hands. She said nothing and knocked on the door. Three seconds later something clicked and she entered. Ten seconds later she hurried out, face flushed pink and body trembling. It would be a while before the tongue-lashing ended for her. Leon almost felt sorry for her.
As the time passed he grew more and more aware of the fact that the gangly guard was staring at him again. It was an innocent enough looking, but as the minutes dragged on the man did not look away once. Leon glanced over and shot him a nasty glare, which only made the man smile. His Kasrkin instincts started to flare as the man slowly approached, taking loping steps in a gait that could only be described as inhuman. He stopped just outside of Leon's peripheral vision and stared down at him, saying nothing.
"Got a problem, mate?"
A soft titter that served as reply should have belonged to a fawning noblewoman. The man took a single step forward and leaned down, eyes bright like a crazy. Leon took the opportunity to size the man up. He was extremely tall, perhaps over seven feet, and thin as a rail. His torso was so thin that Leon could have wrapped his arms around and grabbed his elbows. Long, gangly arms reached down to his knees and ended in elongated fingers that couldn't have been useful for anything but some obscure musical instrument. His body reeked of a fruity perfume, and his hair glistened with some designer gel that added to the putridly fresh scent the man carried. A single well-manicured finger poked into his vision.
"You are a special man" the guard said in a sing-song voice. "You are very special."
"If you even think about sitting down beside me I will shove those fingers so far up your ass you'll be eating nail polish for breakfast."
Again, the man giggled… and sat down. He held out his hand as if in challenge, and Leon had to fight down the urge to draw his sidearm.
"What a temper you've got" the man said. His face had a light coat of makeup on it, highlighting just how ghost-pale his skin was. This close, he looked like an obscene death puppet. Leon's skin crawled at their proximity. "What is your name?"
Choosing not to answer, Leon stared straight ahead. He felt the man's fingers drift closer, hovering just out of touch, and the man drew very close. The man's attention felt like violation, and Leon's breathing grew stiffer as he fought to control the sickened rage that was building inside him. Selene was not paying them attention, but nursing an orange-colored jagger and studying the various plaques on the wall ahead of her. His hand closed on the butt of his pistol and he began to contemplate doing something that he knew he would regret.
"A silent one, is that it? Special and mysterious" the man said with a little squeal of delight. "I think I like you already."
"Do you want something?" The irritation carried clear in Leon's voice, and he made no attempt to hide the very unsubtle unsnapping of his holster strap.
"Just a name" the man purred. "What does one call a handsome morsel like yourself?"
Leon exhaled sharply and drew his sidearm. Turning to face the powdered guard, he laid the weapon across his lap and slipped just a little of his restraint. The man recoiled as Leon's horrid aura made itself known. For the barest moment the giddy mask of delight slipped, but the man recovered just as quickly and patted Leon on the cheek.
"Such a special man" the guard said. His master called his name then, Castiel. A pouting frown crossed the man's face, and he slipped out of the chair. "I hope to see you again, dear."
He darted down suddenly and placed a finger across Leon's mouth. Leon recoiled and half-drew his sidearm. But the man tsked and withdrew. "You flatter yourself too quickly. You are not my type." His eyes drew suggestively to Selene on the bar, and Leon snarled something unrepeatable at the man. That charmless smile returned, and he loped back to his master, who muttered something that quieted the man. His gaze returned to Leon however, and the Kasrkin reluctantly holstered his sidearm. A sudden chill ran down his spine, and Leon realized that he was starting to sweat.
"Frack this damn planet" he growled under his breath. He couldn't wait to leave already.
Cathedral of His Superior Majesty
Father Richard's personal office had not been designed to hold more than a few bodies at one time. Three of the five walls bore shelf after shelf of secular and religious commentary on holy texts, and piles of half-read and briefly sourced volumes lay scattered here and there. For all of his bluster and lack of courage before superiors and terrible things, the man was spiritual. He took his work seriously, and for that Mazarin gave him credit. He would rather have had a stuttering zealot than a bombastic faith peddler in a chapel of this importance.
The few windows gave little light, and most of the illumination came from candles on wall mounts throughout the room. It was strangely subdued for such a monumental place. But the effect worked, and it brought an air of humility and quiet to the Cathedral's head clergyman. If only the chairs had been more comfortable. Father Richard had offered his desk to Mazarin, but even it lacked any form of cushion. His tired old bones ached from the hard wood, but he did not complain. It would have been impious to do so.
Canoness Katerin was a fiery young woman, with passionate eyes and a narrow face that resembled a hunting bird. She was very young for such a position, but her faith overflowed and she had proven to be an effective leader for the Order of Fervent Heart. Under her command they had successfully purged the region of over a hundred minor cults and heresies. Now she stood in the center of the room shaking with barely controlled fury. Sacrilege had been committed on nigh the holiest ground in the city. Her blood was hot for vengeance, Mazarin saw that easily enough. Though she was clad in the simple robes of her order she projected an aura of fanatical devotion and menace. Father Richard seemed particularly effected and stood sweating beside her.
His report had been simple and damning. The dead man had the name Cretchin Finne. He had been a lay-brother in the Cathedral of His Superior Majesty, a minor convict-turned-penitent who had been denied entry into the clergy but taken on as a student of His Word. He lived with the other lay-brothers and guards in the chapel-barracks, and had not registered leave from the cathedral since entering his servitude ten years before. His Confessor had been as perplexed as everyone else by the man's death. Cretchin Finne had been regular in his prayers, his work, his confessions. He had reformed his ways nad taken to chapel service with exemplary fervor. As a penitent, his every move had been monitored, and nothing explained why he had taken it upon himself to commit such a heinous sacrilege.
And that was only half the matter. The words in the sepulcher could have been coincidence, but Mazarin doubted that. He had read the Prophecy of the Cross, as had every clergyman and Sister of appropriately high clearance. The Time Has Come read straight out of the end-verse of the prophecy. But how could Cretchin Finne have known that? The only being in the entirety of the Cathedral of His Superior Majesty that had access to the Prophecy was Canoness Katerin. A lay-brother could not have even know the Prophecy existed.
That was the matter than had Mazarin's attention. This was no simple ritual suicide, he was sure of that. He understood what this was about. A preliminary autopsy conducted on site by the most trusted Sister Hospitaller identified self-mutilations and carvings consistent with past incarnations of the Cult of the Cross. The last incarnation of the damned cult had been squashed out in the early years of Mazarin's appointment. Those that had dealt with the cult were long gone, either dead or moved off-world.
Which meant that this investigation would require expertise that he did not have readily available. Names and contacts were already running through his aged mind as he recalled who to speak to. No doubt Canoness Katerin had a way to contact the various Inquisition squads in the region. They would likely have to be called in. Judge Tupreno needed to be brought in.
"Lord Pontifex, what is your decision?"
He looked first to the Canoness, and read in approval in her eyes. "The Order of Fervent Heart shall lead this investigation for the time being. Word of this must not leave the Cathedral. That being as it is, consider the Cathedral of His Superior Majesty to be under restriction. Father Richard."
"Yes, Lord Pontifex?" The man took a step forward.
"You will send Layman Finne's Confessor to The Order of Fervent Heart for examination. All those who had regular contact with Layman Finne are to be placed under watch by the Sisters as well. Canoness, do you have appropriate accommodations?"
"We will empty a storage room" she answered. "Room shall be no hindrance. We may be few, but we are ready for the task."
"I am sure you and your Sisters are" Mazarin replied. He looked back at Father Richard. "I expect that you shall receive a visit from an Inquisitor soon. Unless he displays proper authority from myself, you are to refuse his investigation. I need to be informed of every move made, no matter how trivial or unassuming it may appear to be. The last thing we need is some rogue agent of the Inquisition mucking about like a soldier in a whorehouse."
Both Father Richard and Canoness Katerin reacted at such language. Mazarin detested such vulgarities, but in this instance it rammed home his point. They bowed low and exited the room, leaving him alone to his thoughts. Mazarin took his seat and let his gaze drift across the rows of books. His feeble fingers brushed the earpiece and activated the micropulse that alerted his subordinate halfway across the city that he wanted to speak. Within moments his personal secretary's voice sprang to life.
"The Reverend of Glorious Victory is quite anxious to know where you are." His attendant's voice was light and scolding at the same time. Very few people had the nerve to speak to him so bluntly. Samael got away with it only because of the superb manner in which he handled his duties. He was a master organizer and had a good mind for the political intrigues of Flostak. When push came to shove, Samael was the most effective assistant he had ever seen. It was as if he could read Mazarin's mind sometimes.
Mazarin wasted no time diving into the heart of the conversation. Efficient as Samael was, he could talk in circles for hours. "I want you to cancel the remainder of my tour immediately. Call in my council and have them meet me in my sanctchapel five hours from now."
"Yes… sir." The vox carried only a hint of Samael's bemused smile. "Might I enquire as to what has happened?"
"You may not" Mazarin snapped. "Nor may the heads of the thirty two chapels that I have not visited yet. Make up something, anything will do, and get them off of my plate. I will be returning to Sanctuary Twilight Rose now and expect to have my orders carried out in full by the time I arrive."
His attendant confirmed the order and disconnected. Mazarin sighed heavily and looked at his timepiece. It was still late morning. He needed lunch, and about five gallons of caf. There was supposed to be an Inquisitor arriving on-planet soon. Someone by the name of Verne. His contacts in the Ordo had been rather unwilling to reveal their agent, but Mazarin kept a tight rein on what Imperial servants came and left his world. This one was supposed to be a real firebrand, the kind that could either seal this mess up nicely or turn it into a fully-fledged disaster.
The sooner he contacted the man, the better.
A/N:
First of all, I must apologize for taking so long to post this chapter. I've been figuratively banging my head against a brick wall of writer's block when it comes to trying to portray the Ecclesiarchy. However, I've noticed that whenever I finally break writer's block I can knock out a couple chapters close on the heels, so I should be able to get this story rolling for a while now.
Second, thank you reviewers for your feedback. You're all awesome. My one request is that I get a couple reviews of what people think of Castiel. Without giving anything away, he pops up a couple more times and I want to make sure I write him well.